“So, Ash,” he says, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger, “what’s the endgame for you?”
It’s a weird question. I stall, say, “What, you mean, like, in hockey?”
He shrugs, but he’s watching me like a chess master. “Hockey, life, relationships. All of it.”
I don’t know what to say, so I joke: “I’m hoping to peak by thirty, get a minor concussion, then open a frozen yogurt place and never think about pucks again.”
He laughs, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not quite a compliment, not quite an accusation.
I feel myself flush. “You have to be, when you’re the sub.”
He leans closer, his shoulder against mine. “You’re not the sub anymore. Not here, not tonight.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then switches topics like it’s nothing. “You ever been to the Crocodile?”
I nod. “Saw a band there last fall. Got hit in the face with a flying beer cup.”
He grins. “That tracks.” He orders another round, doesn’t ask if I want one, and I realize he’s reading me perfectly, knows that I’ll say yes to whatever, that I don’t want to make choices tonight, that I’d rather let someone else take the wheel.
Halfway through the second drink, I feel the conversation shifting. Vincent’s questions get more pointed, less about the team, more about me—childhood, worst fear, “have you always been out,” which makes me snort-laugh so hard I nearly choke.
He says, “I mean, you were kind of a thing in the local circles, even before the shooting. There was a pool on when you’d finally say it.”
I shake my head. “Didn’t know I was that interesting.”
“Everyone’s interesting,” he says. “You just have to ask the right questions.”
There’s a pause, then he puts his hand on my arm, casual but heavy. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” he says. “But I’m guessing you had a reason for not being out. And I’m betting it was a good one.”
I think about Darius, about the way he never asked but always knew, about how it felt to finally let someone see all the way in, even if it was just for a second.
I say, “It’s complicated.”
He nods, doesn’t press. He holds the silence until it turns comfortable, then says, “Can I tell you a secret?”
He’s so close I can smell the whiskey and whatever cologne he uses, clean and sharp.
“Sure,” I say.
He grins. “I was nervous as hell to meet you.”
I laugh, but he’s serious. “You’re like a minor celebrity,” he says. “The whole ‘eternal sub’ thing, the shooting, then suddenly you’re first line and scoring game-winners. It’s compelling.”
I roll my eyes, but secretly I like it. No one’s ever called me compelling before. Not even my therapist.
We sit in the bar, two more rounds, and by then the crowd has thinned and the music’s gotten louder.
The whiskey is hitting hard, and I feel loose, not quite happy but not miserable either.
Vincent says, “You want to go somewhere quieter?” and again, it’s not a question, just a suggestion I’m supposed to agree with.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
He stands, pays the tab, and offers his hand. I don’t take it, but I follow him out, and the night feels less like a punishment and more like a dare.
In the alley behind the bar, he stops, turns, and pins me to the brick with a kiss that’s half threat, half invitation.
He tastes like whiskey and the tiniest hint of toothpaste, and when he presses his body against mine, there’s no hesitation, no awkward shuffle, just pure, practiced want.
